Poetry Quotes - Page 69

Your soul is so bohemian, free and gypsy wild. Come swim with me in the calming sea, let's be mermaids for awhile.

Old soul. Poet's heart. Warriors mind.

Once our souls collided and caught fire, there was no turning back. Love is a collision of two stars -- it's as simple and as complicated as that.

You think you know me, I've barely peeled back one layer.

Is this what I am doing now?Watching the currents, passagesof life around me.I am not looking for books to explainmore with their words, butlistening to poets with their imagery, symbols, listening to my own feelings as Icontinue my pilgrimage in this life,pausing, watching, catching glimpsesof deeper down things.-Deeper Down Things

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeoisstrikes meI like it

She chose messy, she chose wild. She chose life on her own terms.

Trying to explain feelings that are foreign to your heart, make communication daunting, even frightful. How does one express sensations that cower in the corners, fearful they will not be accepted by their inspiration?

Alfa H

I am deep. therefore you can't wade in the kiddie pool and expect to find me." - Alfa"And I've never wanted to drown until now." - JmStorm

Alfa H

How to raise sons who respect women:Never give them the opportunity to see you disrespect yourself.

Alfa H

If everyone only gave a fraction of the compassion their hearts are capable of giving... how much suffering could we alleviate in this world?

Alfa H

Your ability to make me feel like I was less than I was, took awhile to recover from. But after ripping my own self worth to shreds for so long, I realized that I wasn't less just because I was more than your inexperienced hands could handle.

Alfa H

I want you. I want you inside and out. The parts you cover with laughter. The depth you shrug off with indifference. I want you. I want you to take me to the place you've hidden your heart. I want to walk by your side on this journey. You're worth it. We're worth it. Because... I want you.

Alfa H

Put your ears to the ground, to the sky, to the sun and the moon... tune in to Mother Earth's sweet song. She has messages to say, knowledge to relay, inspiration to convey... there is much for you to learn. Your journey has just begun.

You’re human. You can’t be a “motivational speaker” every damn day of your life. It’s okay to have dark days. Allow yourself to go there, then come back up with a gusto, like you always do. You’re an angel, but you’re also human. Don’t beat yourself up for being authentic.

I am often asked what made me the way I am. And my answer is always this: I've always been me. It just took awhile to find me under all the rubble.

Alfa H

I lived for so long without you, only dreaming of the concept of you. And, now that I know you, I can't imagine going back there... to a me that didn't know your name.

His (Samuel Coleridge) dark senses were constantly in play, the frustration of them bringing illness. Weather and organic nature combined in a synaesthetic multi-media event, and this was the ground of all perception before it was divded up in daily living: the Primary Imagination giving way to the Secondary. Poetry was forever seeking a conscious return to this state, which existed all the time, whether he knew it or not.

Que les poètes morts laissent la place aux autres. Et nous pourrions tout de même voir que c'est notre vénération devant ce qui a été déjà fait, si beau et si valable que ce soit, qui nous pétrifie, qui nous stabilise et nous empêche de prendre contact avec la force qui est dessous, que l'on appelle l'énergie pensante, la force vitale, le déterminisme des échanges, les menstrues de la lune ou tout ce qu'on voudra.

There can be no forced inspiration.

Dejan Stojanovic

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

Dejan Stojanovic

Poetry is the wailing of a broken heart―the etched sorrows of despairing souls. These artful words are an exclamation in rare colors expressed noiselessly on parchment. Poetry is the unheard cry of a flower, wilting. It is a humble, lucent tear shed with meaning. It is the lovely portrayal of ugliness and the bitter edge of sweet. Poetry speaks to the spirit by piercing understanding. It interprets all senseless truths―beauty, love, emotion―into sensible scrawl. Poetry is vague affirmation and bewildering clarification. Like the most poignant of emotions, we understand the essence but cannot adequately do it verbal justice, crippled by inherently weak tongues. A spiritual soothsayer, poetry is the closest thing to expression of feelings unutterable.

Richelle E. Goodrich

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.

Dejan Stojanovic

To write good poems is the secret of brevity.

Dejan Stojanovic

No poem ever bought a hamburger, or not too many.

A word only writes Its night and ridesIts dream.

Dejan Stojanovic

When you are here, God is near.

She walks,on the streets,with a face that,doesn't belong.It smiles more than,many put together,whole day long.Her heart misfit,a little chipped.And she likes to,call it once broken,but now stitched.

Jasleen Kaur Gumber

I am nothing but a ripped fabric stitched together by God's grace.

J.A. ANUM

People tell you to believe in yourself for your whole life, then call you arrogant when you begin taking their advice.

Curtis Tyrone Jones

God doesn't listen to me too, but people have their suspicions. सुनता तो रब हमारी भी नहीं,पर लोगों को अल्लाह पे शक बेशक है

Vineet Raj Kapoor

Writing poems is simply an excuse to remember You.

I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?

Dejan Stojanovic

To the knights of faith nobody believes.

Dejan Stojanovic

Right words are born in courage, which results from our struggle to make sense of our various predicaments. Cheer is what words are "trying to tell us/... It's native to the words/and what they want us always to know/even when it seems quite impossible to do.

William Meredith

Carry out your literary dream, no matter how unlikely it may seem...

It nods and curtseys and recoversWhen the wind blows above,The nettle on the graves of loversThat hanged themselves for love.The nettle nods, the wind blows over,The man, he does not move,The lover of the grave, the loverThat hanged himself for love.

EpitaphDen Tigern ertrann ichDie Wanzen nährte ichAufgefressen wurde ichVon den Mittelmäßigkeiten.

But usually not. Usually she thinks of the path to his house, whether deer had eaten the tops of the fiddleheads, why they don't eat the peppermint saprophytes sprouting along the creek; or she visualizes the approach to the cabin, its large windows, the fuchsias in front of it where Anna's hummingbirds always hover with dirty green plumage and jeweled throats. Sometimes she thinks about her dream, the one in which her mother wakes up with no hands. The cabin smells of oil paint, but also of pine. The painter's touch is sexual and not sexual, as she herself is....When the memory of that time came to her, it was touched by strangeness because it formed no pattern with the other events in her life. It lay in her memory like one piece of broken tile, salmon-coloured or the deep green of wet leaves, beautiful in itself but unusable in the design she was making

Plût au ciel que le lecteur, enhardi et devenu momentanément féroce comme ce qu’il lit, trouve, sans se désorienter, son chemin abrupt et sauvage, à travers les marécages désolés de ces pages sombres et pleines de poison ; car, à moins qu'il n’apporte dans sa lecture une logique rigoureuse et une tension d’esprit égale au moins à sa défiance, les émanations mortelles de ce livre imbiberont son âme comme l’eau le sucre. Il n’est pas bon que tout le monde lise les pages qui vont suivre ; quelques-uns seuls savoureront ce fruit amer sans danger. Par conséquent, âme timide, avant de pénétrer plus loin dans de pareilles landes inexplorées, dirige tes talons en arrière et non en avant. Écoute bien ce que je te dis : dirige tes talons en arrière et non en avant.

Comte de Lautréamont

See--two who dreamed that dream, and you were one.

If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. "Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo':Simple PoemI shall make it simple so you understand.Making it simple will make it clear for me.When you have read it, take me by the handAs children do, loving simplicity.This is the simple poem I have made.Tell me you understand. But when you doDon't ask me in return if I have saidAll that I meant, or whether it is true.

Anthony Thwaite

The poetry of love is the greatest gift God gave us.

So it's off with the shellsuit and on with the Armanis,Bring out the champagne and the caviar sarnies

unless you're the lead dog the view never changes...mercy out does justice every time:always find your way back home/

Min ene sko knirker af mangel på stjerneskud

Contemporary poets got so obscure that poetry kind of fell out of favor,

They went forth to battle, but they always fell;t Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields;tNobly they fought and bravely, but not well,tAnd sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell.t They knew not fear that to the foeman yields,t They were not weak, as one who vainly wieldstA futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls telltHow on the hard-fought field they always fell.tIt was a secret music that they heard,t A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace;t And that which pierced the heart was but a word,tThough the white breast was red-lipped where the swordt Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surceaset On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase.tAh, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred,t And died for hearing what no foeman heard.

Shaemus O'Sheel

Neither pathway is correct.

victor hugo, Les Contemplations, MorsJe vis cette faucheuse. Elle était dans son champ. Elle allait à grands pas moissonnant et fauchant, Noir squelette laissant passer le crépuscule. Dans l'ombre où l'on dirait que tout tremble et recule, L'homme suivait des yeux les lueurs de la faulx.Et les triomphateurs sous les arcs triomphaux Tombaient ; elle changeait en désert Babylone, Le trône en échafaud et l'échafaud en trône, Les roses en fumier, les enfants en oiseaux,L'or en cendre, et les yeux des mères en ruisseaux. Et les femmes criaient : - Rends-nous ce petit être. Pour le faire mourir, pourquoi l'avoir fait naître ? -Ce n'était qu'un sanglot sur terre, en haut, en bas ; Des mains aux doigts osseux sortaient des noirs grabats ; Un vent froid bruissait dans les linceuls sans nombre ; Les peuples éperdus semblaient sous la faulx sombre Un troupeau frissonnant qui dans l'ombre s'enfuit ; Tout était sous ses pieds deuil, épouvante et nuit.Derrière elle, le front baigné de douces flammes, Un ange souriant portait la gerbe d'âmes.

It comes down to this: we're pieces of equipmentTo be counted and signed for. On occasion some of us break down,And those parts which can't be salvagedAre replaced with other GI parts, that's all.

Rolando Hinojosa

Lineation can make your break your poems.

Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

Parent-Teacher ConferenceAt the parent-teacher conference,my father made a scene.He scared my fifth-grade teacher,with his mask from Halloween. She showed him all my science gradesand said she was concerned,but he just stuck his tongue outwhen my teacher’s back was turned. He drew a monster on the boardand claimed it was her twin.He even shook her soda,which expolded on her chin. My angry teacher crossed her armsand said, “This meeting’s done!I now see where he gets it from—you act just like your son!

Darren Sardelli

Não estatize meus sentimentos. Pra seu governo, o meu estado é independente.

I didn't know how to hold my lips.

Painted desert, ocean of colorsun's worshiper, moon's loverpicture of a coyote's voicesandbox of angels, another toy.

Any hand can condem, but it takes a helping hand to build.

Unless you are here: this garden refuses to exist.Pink dragonflies fall from the airand become scorpions scratching blood out of rocks.The rainbows that dangle upon this mist: shatter. Like the smile of a child separatedfrom his mother’s milk for the very first time.--from poem Blood and Blossoms

Aberjhani

In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in darkness without the relief of compassion, the voice of an exceptional poet producing exceptional work is not something the world can afford to dismiss.

Aberjhani

We have no quarrel with the German nation,One would not quarrel with a flock of sheep.But, generation after generation,They throw up leaders who disturb our sleep.

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